The Fog - James Herbert [66]
Joe Ennard took his seat again and reached for the stick. The angry mechanical sound of the voice from Heathrow’s Control Tower buzzed through his head, filling the cockpit, but he ignored it. He looked down at London, searching for the tall familiar landmark, his eyes glazed but still seeing.
A grin of satisfaction spread across his features, a strange grin that bared his teeth, made his face skull-like. He’d found what he’d been looking for.
Terry slowly became aware of the frantic banging on the door. The Chief Steward had heard the commotion and was anxiously demanding that the door be opened, oblivious now to the fact that some of the passengers would hear. The Flight Engineer pulled himself groggily to his knees and looked towards the front of the cockpit. He couldn’t see Miller, but he could see the Captain hunched over the controls as though looking through the windows at something below.
He felt the aircraft go into a dive as the pilot pushed forward on his stick, felt all four engines being given full throttle and the great machine thrust forward with unbelievable power. Desperately, he reached for the hidden gun and fumbled with its safety catch. He crawled towards the pilot’s seat, holding it before him in a trembling hand.
‘Stop!’ he called out futilely. ‘Pull her out or I’ll shoot!’
He staggered to his feet, using the back of Captain Ennard’s seat to lever himself up. He raised the gun to the back of the Captain’s head, imploring him to pull back on the stick. Then his eyes fell on the building that was rushing towards them. He screamed as he squeezed the trigger.
Before the sound of the gunshot, before the Captain’s brains mixed with blood were spattered on to the instrument panel in front of him, Terry thought he heard him say something. It sounded like, ‘Good morning, Kevin,’ but the Flight Engineer had no time or desire to reflect on the words for his head was filled with its own terror.
The 747 jumbo jet exploded into the tall GPO Tower with a mighty roar that echoed throughout London, over three hundred and fifty tons of crashing metal that toppled the building as though it were made of children’s blocks.
13
Holman was driven to the Middlesex Hospital to pick up Casey with Detective Inspector Barrow acting as escort. The Home Secretary had made him a valuable man; the one person they had so far who had recovered from the effects of the mysterious fog. He would have to be examined and his brain patterns studied to find out how he had recovered – and if he were now immune. Casey was necessary too, as the nearest person suffering from the effects. Corpses would be flown up from Bournemouth by helicopter for autopsies to be performed on them in an attempt to discover exactly what damage had been done to their brain. Others, still living but insane, would be selected and flown up for further tests. But at that precise moment, John Holman and Casey Simmons were the two most important people in England.
From the hospital, they were taken by ambulance to the Ministry of Health building that was strangely situated at the Elephant and Castle. Holman sat in the ambulance looking down at Casey, who was under sedation, holding her hand in both of his, worried over the paleness of her features. He looked at his watch: 9.45. God, he was tired! He had thought it would be at least around noon. People were still scurrying off to work, their day just beginning, just hearing of the devastating news from the seaside resort. Would they panic? They’d certainly have to be given some answers. Who would they blame? The government? The Russians? The Chinese? Maybe some other countries for a change. Were there any friendly countries left? Even America was becoming hostile.
What excuse would the government give? Pollution? Would that play its part? God knows, he’d found enough evidence of the damage pollution could do in his job, but nothing of this magnitude, obviously. And the public weren’t that stupid any more. The media had broadened their minds, given them an insight, however